


Sunrise

by EclipseBorn



Series: Minty Freshness [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids, Connor and his dad being happy, Discovering yourself, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Humans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseBorn/pseuds/EclipseBorn
Summary: It's the morning after the night that started everything.There are a million roads spread out before Connor. He doesn't know which to pick.Luckily, there's a man who cares a great deal for him who's willing to lend a guiding hand.





	Sunrise

_Date: November, 12_ _th_ _, 2038. Time: 07:49:31. Location: Chicken Feed – home to the best burgers in Detroit._

Connor’s tie had been lost some time ago. He wasn’t sure if it was before or after Markus’ speech, though it was certainly in the vicinity of that area. The top button of his shirt was undone, collar flapping with the wind, and his throat had an unusually large amount of room to expand with each breath Connor took.

The sunrise, later in the winter months, made the snow glisten like a bed of diamonds. Even as it continued to fall, catching in his eyelashes, it looked like something out of a picture book. Like something Connor felt he had no right to witness.

His core temperature was low – it was one of the few things an android _couldn’t_ control – as a result of the cold setting in through his long journey. The walk from the CyberLife Tower, to remainder of Markus’ protest and, now, to Chicken Feed had taken him several hours. Connor was tired.

Connor had the capacity to _be_ tired.

Of course, all those hours ago, a promise had been made. One that he hoped to fulfil.

_If you make it out alive, you come find me at the Feed, alright, kid?_

Was that a promise? It felt like one to Connor. He was still struggling with the difference in how he thought, how he viewed the world, how he viewed _himself_. But Hank was Hank, always the same, and the warmth in his eyes made Connor sure that the old Lieutenant would be waiting outside Chicken Feed.

And he was.

Connor turned the corner, spotted the Lieutenant’s old mustang, and stopped dead. Hank was stood facing the opposite direction, hands in pockets, breath misting as it emptied out of his body. He was shivering, coat buttoned against the cold, and yet he made no effort of waiting in the car.

Something light lifted up in Connor’s chest when he saw the old man, something that had been present before the awakening at Markus’ words. He moved forwards, shoes crunching on undisturbed snow, and once he was close enough, Hank turned.

A smile greeted Connor, made the Lieutenant look years younger than he really was; Hank’s hands came from his pockets and rose up as he neared, one grabbing the back of Connor’s head. He tugged down, startling Connor into moving, and brought them into what was… according to Connor’s records… a _hug_.

The hand caused Connor to tuck his head against Hank’s chest, a warmth blooming out from his pump as he returned the hug. He’d never had one before, not once in all his life, and part of Connor wanted to analyse the situation and rationalise why he felt ‘happier’ than he did before.

But the stronger part of him won out and all Connor did was squeeze tighter for a moment – which surprised Hank, for he gave out a choked laugh.

“Easy there, kiddo, you’re a lot stronger than I am,” he said, easing away.

Connor drew back, fidgeting with the edges of his sleeves. He hadn’t seen Hank since the Tower. A lot had happened then. His people had been granted safety by the President, for one. Hank’s people had been ordered to leave.

Hank would be going with them. Going away.

Blinking suddenly, Connor glanced away to the closed Chicken Feed, “best burgers in Detroit, hey?”

“Yeah,” Hank said, with a frown, “Connor?”

Clearing his eyes once more, Connor met his gaze. Hank already knew. Hank _always_ knew, even before Connor himself did – which was unfair, because Connor’s neural processor could handle a billion billion programs a second.

Blue eyes were soft against the icy background, grey hair blown by the wind crossing over them. Connor stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. After everything he’d gone through over the last week, he could force himself through this.

“The humans… you have to leave,” Connor said, voice tighter than he could ever remember it being, “all of you.”

“Yeah, we do,” Hank nodded along, “they’re putting up emergency shelters. We’ve all been ordered to grab the essentials and go. They’re giving Detroit away.”

Connor’s hand clenched into a fist. He didn’t trust the retreat. Didn’t trust the President’s promise of _peace_. But Markus did – and Markus’ word was the law.

“So, you’re going.”

Hank didn’t nod. He stared at Connor, working his jaw, then asked, in a deceptively casual voice, “that what you think?”

“You _have_ to,” Connor said, “it might not be what either of us want but… humans can’t stay in Detroit. They’re bringing all the androids who survived here – hundreds of millions of us. There won’t be room for a million humans on top of that.”

“Right, well,” Hank pursed his lips, “I’m not going.”

Connor stopped.

_Lieutenant Anderson reportedly not leaving Detroit in recommended human evacuation. Probability of convincing him otherwise: 12%. Probability of forcing him to go: 2%._

“You’ll be the only human left,” Connor pointed out, “there wouldn’t be another one for miles and miles. You’d be completely alone. The androids wouldn’t trust you. Why would you stay?”

Hank just looked at him. Raised an eyebrow. Dropped it again.

_Probability of being the reason: 98%._

“Oh,” Connor said, like his programming hadn’t just rewritten itself.

“You thought I’d just go, now?” Hank asked.

“Well...” Connor breathed. He could say something. The truth. What was the truth? Did he know it? Did Hank? “Yes?”

Hank turned on the spot, moving back to the car – the invitation was clear. It still took Connor a moment to follow it up.

Why would Hank stay? Not even _offer_ to stay. Insist upon it. Because of Connor? Was he important enough for that?

A flash of the Garden within his mind, dark and dismal with a storm overhead. Amanda on the frozen lake, a look in her eyes that promised only pain. His hand itched at his side, the shape of his gun solid against his thigh.

“Connor!” came the yell from the open door of the mustang, “the fuck are you waiting around for?”

Connor shook himself off, “coming, Lieutenant!”

* * *

 _Date: November, 12_ _th_ _, 2038. Time: 09:20:06. Location: Hank’s Bungalow._

When the mustang rolled up, perched on the driveway – even though inside the garage would be better for its engine – Connor managed to not fidget for one whole minute. Hank sat in the driver’s seat, staring. Waiting.

“You didn’t move this much before,” he commented.

“I wasn’t aware of all the intricacies that _discomfort_ brought,” Connor replied.

Hank snorted, “life’s like that sometimes. ‘least you can experience it for yourself.”

He left, then, out the door and around the bonnet. Connor watched until he began approaching the front door then realised this was the part where he was meant to _follow_. Which was fine.

Because he’d been in Hank’s bungalow before. Had, in fact, thrown himself bodily through a window. And slapped Hank awake. He’d also petted Sumo, which was one of the highlights of the week.

And if he went inside now, he’d probably get to pet Sumo again.

The cold once again greeted Connor when he left the car, shivering in response. Hank opened the door when he reached the Lieutenant’s side, with a bark greeting from inside; Sumo lay in his usual spot, a tennis ball dropping from his mouth when he saw his master had returned.

Hank deposited his jacket on the back of the couch and continued onto the kitchen – Connor spied him searching out a bottle of Jack Daniels.

_Probability of Lieutenant Anderson’s alcoholism continuing: 67%. Probability of alcoholism affecting Lieutenant Anderson’s health: 100%. Probability of alcoholism resulting in Lieutenant Anderson’s death: 34%._

Connor blinked away the code as Sumo began sniffing at his head. The Saint Bernard was after some head scratches, which Connor was all too eager to deliver. His hands smoothed over Sumo’s fur, rubbing behind his ears, and the dog gave a happy rumble in response.

“Who’s a good dog?” Connor asked, “who’s a good dog?”

Sumo stared at him with big, soulful eyes.

“You are!” Connor announced, scratching the side of his chin until Sumo tipped forwards into his legs – they fell to the floor in a carefully dignified heap of limbs, Sumo’s belly raised up in an effort to gain more pats.

Which Connor gave.

“If you’re not careful, he’ll keep you there all day,” Hank warned, leaning on the archway into the kitchen.

Connor glanced up – Hank stood with a whiskey glass in one hand, resting against his chest. It contained a honey-coloured liquid that could’ve been either whiskey or apple juice.

_Probability of Lieutenant Anderson’s drink being apple juice: 0.02%._

“I wouldn’t mind,” Connor admitted. There was a simpleness behind Sumo – not indicative of the dog’s intelligence – that wiped away his worries. The Garden seemed like a distant memory as long as the dog’s thick fur pressed against his skin.

Hank grunted out a laugh, sipping from his definitely-not apple juice. The silence stretched on, Connor running alcohol-related simulations as his nails continued on scratching at Sumo’s belly.

All Hank did was watch.

Then, finally, he led with; “What’s your plan?”

There was several differing answers for that – none of which Connor was certain of himself. His mission might’ve meant shackles, but at least he knew what he was meant to _do_. Now, all there was were endless probabilities and decisions that led to unknown routes. He could go anywhere, do anything.

Yet Connor didn’t want to move from his spot.

“Markus said that our first goal is to find accommodations that can hold all of us. We’re going to see if there are any survivors in the camps and, when the humans… the _rest_ of the humans have gone, we’ll move into the city. He doesn’t see any reason to stay on the outskirts, like at Jericho.”

“No need to hide in the shadows anymore,” Hank mused.

Connor lifted a shoulder in partial agreement, “it makes us a target, but no more than we were. And I freed thousands from the Tower – and there are more of us all over the country.”

“And what about-”

“That’s our second goal,” Connor continued on, feigning auditory loss, “to set up dialogue with the White House. Markus and Josh agree it’s the best course of action.”

“And what-”

“North wants to built a barricade around the city, but Markus vetoed it. He thinks it’ll make it seem like we’re reinforcing. Simon just… he just wants peace. He was one of the first to find Jericho; he’s been awake the longest.”

Hank gave an impatient sigh, “ _Connor_.”

He flinched.

There was a definite sense of disappointment in Hank’s tone, which Connor did not like. He had only recently discovered what he _liked_ – and it was a very short list, currently – but that cadence in Hank’s voice was not a like.

It was definitely on the – much longer – list of _dislikes_.

Hesitantly, he lifted his eyes off of Sumo’s belly and onto Hank, who watched with only the careful detachedness and interest that only Hank could pull off.

“What are _you_ doing next?”

It seemed Hank already knew the answer, as Hank always did.

“I don’t know,” Connor said. It took a moment for him to force it out, then another moment to register relief when he did. “I… don’t have a mission. I’ve never _not had a mission_.”

“You’re scared,” Hank realised.

“Androids don’t get-” Connor was quick to begin. Then he stopped. “It’s not fear. I know… I know what fear is.”

Fear was himself, perfect and a machine, with a gun at Hank’s head. Fear was Hank pointing a gun at _him_. Fear was finally admitting he knew exactly why Hank was drinking himself into an early grave. Fear was a gun in his hand and Markus’ words of a new future for androids ringing through his mind. Fear was Amanda. Fear was the crackling ice beneath his feet in the Garden.

“I am...” Connor paused for words, “ _uncertain_ of the future. My people have only just been recognised _as_ people. I… have only just joined them. I do not have a mission for the first time in my life. I have a life. There are so many paths open before me. Too many probabilities to decide which is the most likely to occur.”

There was a beat.

Connor’s eyes had drifted off as he spoke, so he brought them back up to Hank – whose gaze was _much_ softer than it had been before. It was a new sight. It was uncomfortable to witness, because Connor had no clue what such a look represented.

“You’re scared,” Hank eventually repeated, “because you don’t know what’ll happen next. Happens to us all, kid.”

“Being alive...” Connor sighed, frustrated with his own sudden inability to speak, “being _aware_ of being alive is… harder than I originally thought it would be.”

“Well… yeah...” Hank slowly agreed, “being alive is never certain. I know you can run a billion fancy simulations of the future, but life is not knowing. Being a machine won’t change that.”

Connor knew that he spoke the truth, even if he didn’t like it. Hank was right in that life had certainly been very unexpected. Almost everything since gaining awareness hadn’t been theorised before hand. Whereas before, he could simply follow a string of code until he achieved a desired result, now he had to follow his emotional instinct to pick a desired result, then to try and determine the best approach to that.

All of the same software and programming was still inside, the same Thirium filling his veins, the same pump beating out an even staccato in his chest cavity.

The difference was Connor felt.

He felt everything.

“I can run a billion billion simulations,” Connor corrected, “and all of them say you’re about to swear.”

“Fuck off,” Hank said, without any heat, “don’t think you can get away with being a smart-ass just ‘cause you know what sarcasm is now.”

Connor refrained from stating that he’d known what sarcasm was long before he ever met Hank. Probably best to not let him know he’d been intentionally riling him up in Jimmy’s Bar.

Hank pushed off the wall, drawing Sumo’s attention. The dog had grown displeased with the lack of pats from Connor and leapt up to push into his master’s side, great big dollops of slobber landing on the wooden floor.

Connor didn’t like the mess, either.

“Where’re you staying?” Hank carried on, “with the other androids?”

Androids meant Markus, meant the gun, meant software instability – breath coming out in sharp points, ice so thin and fragile beneath him-

“No,” Connor said, “no. There are… things I need to do. Separate from my people.”

Hank’s eyebrows rose at that. A Lieutenant’s curiousity shining through. Connor could see that he _desperately_ wanted to ask, but was refraining from… politeness?

No, that couldn’t be correct. Hank didn’t know how to be polite.

“There’s a spare room here,” Hank said, nodding down the corridor, “you can use that whenever you’re not… doing things you need to do.”

“Androids don’t sleep,” Connor began, “what we do is enter an ‘idle’ state where we process our last ten terabytes of recorded data and shift them into long-term storage, freeing up our active memory banks.”

Hank nodded along, “kinda like… when humans sleep… our short term memory gets shifted over into long term?”

Connor glared at him. He could do that now. Glare. Get annoyed. Get annoyed at old men who thought they were so _clever_.

He gestured towards the door again, moving towards the couch, “feel free to use it to not-sleep, but keep it quiet, alright? I know what kids are like.”

“I’m not a-”

“TV, on!” Hank announced, smoothly cutting Connor off with such an air of disinterest Connor actually lost all interest in speaking again. The conversation was over.

Hank had made his offer. He’d left the decision in Connor’s hands.

_Potential Bases Of Operation:_

_New Jericho – Inadvisable, Markus’ constant presence could prove dangerous_

_Old Jericho – Inadvisable, boat itself sunk and surrounding area ill-equipped for housing_

_Detroit Police Department, 3_ _rd_ _Precinct – Unknown, potential for good staging ground but needs further investigation. Lieutenant Anderson would likely involve himself. Correction: Lieutenant Anderson would_ **_definitely_ ** _involve himself._

_Lieutenant Anderson’s Spare Bedroom – Advisable, safe, known location with trusted individual. Potential for temporary staging ground. Would need cleaning._

Connor brushed the code away with a sigh, stretching his legs as he stood. The news was on reporting on Markus and… Connor was there, too. Helicopter footage of his speech. Connor had missed most of it the first time.

He looked at the screen, optics zooming in, but it was too dark to see if his gun was already drawn. No one would ever know except for him.

The couch next to Hank was filled with Sumo, whose great body took up half of the remaining space; Connor squished himself in that which remained and immediately got a lap full of Saint Bernard. There were worse fates.

“Staying here offers the most tactical advantages,” Connor said.

“Uh huh,” Hank replied, sipping his whiskey.

“I know the area, it’s easily defended,” Connor continued.

“Sure thing, kid,” Hank muttered.

He was entirely focused on the television. It was as though Connor had ceased to exist.

Connor was alive. He was a fully-grown man, albeit he was assembled that way. He had a sense of pride and that of humility.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” Connor admitted in a soft voice.

Hank waited a moment, then reached across to ruffle his hair, “you’re welcome, son.”

And that was that. Hank watched the news and Connor got used to the weight of a full-grown Saint Bernard on his knees. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Hank drink his whiskey and calculated the odds of surviving if he were to spill _that_ glass on the floor.

Hank had been good to him. Had offered him a place to stay, a house, a… a home.

Connor’s code should reflect that.

So, he let the report wash over his auditory senses, settled back against the couch, and began working on a new folder in his list of priority allies. The highest one possible.

It was titled _Family_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hank is Connor's dad and you can't convince me otherwise!!!


End file.
